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002. --Hiding In Wait--

Barricade shot him a contemptuous look (and unnoticed and noiselessly, he steeled himself for an attack that didn't-didn't-didn't come) before glowering with all four optics at Starscream. "I watched that little glitch back when he was flesh bag! I did my time!"

"You're doing more time, you fragging little glitch --"

Forgotten, he stood silent-still (part of The Room unmovable cement gray conserving energy automatically). Descendant wasn't feeling terribly impressed by the Decepticon army (and less and less as time went on and his subprograms began to reconnect and restart and restructure his processors so he could remember how to really think). How did they even function? (Not a military captain, or anything, but the in fighting --) He recalled opposing cliques of thirteen-year-old-girls who would have made a more solidified war force! If Megatron hadn't captured the All Spark ...

Well, no use thinking about that, of all things. Megatron had the All Spark, Sam was dead, the Autobots driven underground with what humans remained, and Descendant was a Decepticon recruit. Whatever. He was impatient for Barricade to just get over it so that they could go out and he could find some form to change into. It took a while for all of his processors and programs to line up in a logical way (and he still slipped, on occasion), but he quickly figured out what was wrong with him and why he felt bare. He had no alt-mode, and therefore was not configured with proper armor.

At least they fixed his hip after branding him. He slid the tip of one claw over the stinging burn on his pelvic plate, idly running system checks while Starscream and Barricade really got into it. They hated each other for various reasons that probably happened hundreds of years ago, if not thousands. Descendant didn't particularly care what their history was, but the fact that Starscream actually got Barricade to stop being slippery-purring-drawling amused the hell out of him.

Well, not at the time. At the time, he'd been Sam-made-of-meat and certain that the Autobots would eventually succeed in winning and rescue Sam-Witwicky-their-friend/key, and he was worried that Starscream would work Barricade into a fit that would end with him as a spatter of juices.

Now he was Descendant-made-of-metal, though, and he could bite-rend-tear-cut-rip, and it was pretty damn amusing -- well, fascinating. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, as it'd only been a short while since he had left The Room. He knew he would have found it funny, though.

He winced when Barricade grabbed him by a sensor panel and began to manhandle him away. As someone with sensor panels himself, Barricade likely knew exactly where to put pressure to maximize pain. That said, enough pressure was being exerted that he was not yet paralyzed, but he definitely wouldn't argue with whatever Barricade decided to do. He had once been fragile meat in a world of hard and sharp edges, so the pain did not come as a shock. Especially since he had been constructed the way he had. Parts could be replaced, wires reformed. Pain was as inconsequential as the alerts that broke across his processors in illusions of light and sound, indicating strained joints, taunt wires, protesting metal.

"Hurry up, maggot," Barricade rumbled as he released the sensor panel. For such a small bot, he did have a fairly impressive vocalizer.

Descendant trailed along obediently for the moment, still a little accustomed to listening to Barricade's orders. There wasn't much of a difference between the base and the world (dead grey dead cement steel broken unfriendly dark) and he looked around, taking in the Earth as it was -- and realized that more time than he had thought must have passed. The Earth was gray-dead-dying and silent-still-cold, clouds-or-worse covering the sky. It was like every post-apocalyptic movie that he had ever seen ... a mix between "War of the Worlds" and a sudden ghost town. They'd set up in some big city, and even the massive sprawling-tall-monsterous base didn't cover the entire thing. There was property damage, but not everything was destroyed. Some parts were demolished, but not all parts.

Being out in the open made his circuits quiver and his sensor panels stiffen and arch upwards in alert. Anxiety began to build in him from his subprocessors, triggering a whole new set of programs that Descendant had never felt tickle across his processor before. He was -- he was scanning the broken vehicles compulsively, searching for something to use to hide him. He felt -- he felt vulnerable.

A little bit of surprise trickled across the meat-self-echo. That these massive mechanical monsters could feel frightened, and be driven by the need to be able to hide ...?

"Not these," Barricade said with an unreadable look at him, and Descendant swiftly centered his visuals on his ... mentor? "None of these will work," Barricade added, noting his attention. With a careless swipe of his arm, he knocked one of the crashed cars aside. "You'll need something that can get you across this terrain. How these meatlings could live in such a breakable world ..."

Descendant recentered his processors when Barricade began to mutter to himself. He knew that the ... police car (he had kept that form?) shaped mech was prone to brooding. It had been a surprise that such a violent monster could be so ... introspective. When he was a meat-thing. Now he sort of understood it better, and didn't begrudge the Decepticon his mind games.

It wasn't until he wandered away from Barricade and into the part of the city that had once had military aid that he found a suitable form. It was rather large, but it would give him plenty of armor. His programs informed him that it was on the large side of his capabilities -- anything larger would be impossible to mimic. He grasped the vehicle and turned it off its side and onto its wheels, scanning it. For a long moment, he studied the shape, turning it over in his processors and giving them time to correct the dimensions -- fill out the dents and put glass in where it had been blown out.

Then the data was sliced apart, fed into his transformation algorithms, and he went to pieces. Within three seconds, there were two Nissan Patrols sitting there. Descendant soaked in the feeling of contentment that swept through his processors at finally having a camouflage, and rolled forward.

Yes, the military style Patrol would work well. It had obviously been made for off road driving. Satisfaction actually shook Descendant out of the shape, as his sensor panels -- half of a door, now -- quivered hard enough to break the seamless door frame until the illusion was broken and the entire shell of the vehicle came apart. A part of him found it fascinating that breaking the illusion just by cracking a seamless connection induced reversing form.

Standing, he took in the difference in his form, now. No longer a protoform, sliced together out of spare parts, now he was armored in metal mock-painted with military mottling, giving substance to his form. His claws looked stronger, he looked sharper ... and the black Decepticon icon was stamped like a brand on his hip plate.

Reflexively flashed his claws in front of his face, catching the amber glimmering of his optics, he cocked his head and listened for Barricade and reflecting on the names of the dead.

At least, he finally decided, he was on the winning side.

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